Monthly Archives: August 2012

She was a hunk of sculptor’s clay,
My secret thoughts were fingers;
They flew behind her pensive brow
And lined in deep with pain.
They set the lips, and sugged the cheeks,
And drooped the eyes with sorrow.
My soul had entered in the clay,
Fighting like seven devils.
It was not mine, it was not hers;
She held it, but its struggles
Modeled a face she hated,
And a face I feared to see.